


Just A Boy

by JEAikman



Series: The Musketeers - prompts and one-shots [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos POV, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Whump, but I'm not, d'artagnan is a puppy which makes him my constant victim, i'd say sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JEAikman/pseuds/JEAikman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos never wanted d'Artagnan to be in this situation. He never wanted to be holding the boy in his arms, his hands covered by the blood of the young would-be musketeer from trying to treat his wound as best he could in the cold cell they'd been left in, praying that he wouldn't fade away before they were rescued.</p>
<p>This was for a Protective!Athos prompt on tumblr, where my username is raouldehadleyfraser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Boy

D'Artagnan is silent as they drag us to whatever Godforsaken hole they are using as a base of operations - from my position behind him, I cannot tell if he is conscious. They shot him in the leg, and if his scream was anything to go by, it shattered the bone. I hope he isn't awake, and I begin to despair - because how am I ever to get us out of this if the idiot Gascon can't even walk?

 

The worst thing is, I know what he'll say when he wakes and realises the extent of his injuries. He'll ask - no, he'll beg me to leave him behind, and that's something I don't think I can do.

 

They throw us in their makeshift dungeons, shackled, but not bound to the floor. I shuffle over to where the boy lay. He didn't even react as he fell. That worries me. Looking at his leg, I can see the blood seeping out of the hole in his thigh, and I know if something isn't done soon, he's going to die, or have to lose the leg. The thought of him hobbling around on one leg - d'Artagnan, so full of life and optimism, though not as naive as one would think. But innocent of many things yet. He does not deserve this. He deserves better. So much better, and I can feel a protective rage boiling up inside. This boy, however untrained he is, is one of _my_ men, and I should have kept him safe, somehow.

 

Logically, I know how impossible that is.

 

He stirs when I've torn up my shirt and started pressing it onto the wound. He jolts awake when I tie the rest of it securely, satisfied that the bleeding, at least, is under control. He doesn't scream, though I can see he wants to.

 

"Easy, easy, lad." I murmur as I place a firm hand on his shoulder. He looks so lost, and there are tears in his eyes. It strikes me how young he looks - too young for such pain, and yet, he chose this life. With us. Perhaps it was because there was no one else left for him. We- Aramis, Porthos, and I are all he has in the world.

 

"A...th's?" His voice is so pathetically quiet and pained that I can feel my heart breaking, and I hold him close to console him, like one would a child.

"Shhh. I'm here. I'll not leave you."

"But-"

"No." I cut him off with a firm shake of the head. "We will wait for the others. I will not leave a man behind." I promise him, and, without really realising it, pressing my lips onto the top of his head. "Try to rest, d'Artagnan. It will be alright." He is so pale though - how long will the others take? Will he even last the night? I balk at the idea of d'Artagnan dead and cold on this stone floor. I cannot allow that to happen. I already have, quite literally, his blood on my hands, and I can only hope that the others hurry, because I do not want it on them figuratively as well.

 

But for whatever reason, the idiot farmboy is smiling at me and clumsily positions himself so that his head is resting against my shoulder.

"It was my own stupid fault I got shot." I frown down at him. Why was he bringing this up? But just as I was about to ask, he had the answer at the ready. "So stop blaming yourself, alright? I can see it all over your... face." He leaned more heavily against me.

 

We were quiet for a time.

 

"Do you think... the others will get here soon?"

 

"I hope so, why, what is it?" I ask, my frantic heart pounding in worry. I try not to let my voice betray that.

 

"Only... it's not a good thing when it doesn't hurt anymore, is it?" his voice is so small, so timid. Not at all like the bold and rash young man I have come to know and... dare I say it? Love? I gulp at his admission.

 

"Try to hold out a little longer, d'Artagnan. They will come. They will. You must be strong, boy." I look down and try to give him a smile. "Can you do that, for me?"

"I don't know" He admits.

 

"You have to try. Promise. Promise me, boy." If he hadn't been pressed to my shoulder, I wouldn't have noticed that he tried so very hard to give me a nod.

 

It was then that I heard the muffled sounds of fighting. _Mon Dieu_ , I have never been so grateful for the smell of gunpowder. I can hear Aramis yelling for us even as, or so I imagine, Porthos finishes off the last of the brutes.

 

"HERE! Aramis! We're here!" I can hear the running footsteps, and soon enough, Aramis has knocked down the door to our cell, and Porthos has caught up with him.

 

"H..he needs help - quickly" I manage, and Porthos has lifted d'Artagnan from me, and Aramis unshackles me. I am beyond exhausted, but I cannot stop. Not while the boy teeters on this knife edge.

 

Only when he is in the safe hands of the doctor who assures me that he will survive do I let myself fall against the wall in completely shattered relief. I don't realise that there are tears running down my cheeks until Aramis offers me a handkerchief. They both look at me expectantly. They want an explanation for my behaviour. And if I'm honest - I'm not sure I have one. I know I can trust them, but I've never confided in them. I won't start now. The only one I'd ever think to tell anything is lying in my bed, pale and ill, most likely coming down with a fever due to the infection in his wound. I told him about my wife, after all. He's kept me sane, since. But I don't know if I could tell him this. But my friends need _something_ to explain my behaviour, so I say:

 

"He's a boy - just a boy. He's so _young_ "

 

Why can I never protect that which I love?


End file.
